


at your funeral i was so upset (in your life you were larger than this, statuesque)

by irisella



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M, also they're in love which is nice, angst i guess but i promise it's not all bad, baz is severely depressed pls read with caution, there's a happy ending, this is purely abt their road to process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 17:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18627487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisella/pseuds/irisella
Summary: 'fire, you remember—it’s like lighting a match.'//alternatively, simon isn't the only one who's burning out.





	at your funeral i was so upset (in your life you were larger than this, statuesque)

**Author's Note:**

> title is from bloc party's "signs" which, aside from being super sad, is totally worth a listen. plus, i'm like 150% sure baz would cry to this song.
> 
> tw: this fic deals with baz's downwards spiral, thus mental illnesses, suicide, unsafe eating habits, etc. will be mentioned. please, keep that in mind while reading & if you feel like it's not safe for you to do so or that it may be potentially triggering, do NOT proceed w/ the fic. stay safe, my loves xx
> 
> also, nearly everything i write comes from my own personal experience w/ mental health, so it might be a little wonky. & i just can't dart over baz's intentions during chapter 61? that whole forest scene, to me, was very very, alarming.

you’re sixteen when you first realize that something might, on a fundamental level, be wrong with _the_ tyrannus basilton grimm-pitch.  
  
you’d had a rough day: agatha had argued her way out of a date with you, the mage had called for some grueling assignment that left you bruised and concussed. and merlin, you still don’t have a grasp of basic _algebra_.  
  
you walk into your dorm late in the afternoon, expecting it to be empty—baz is almost always somewhere else these days—and nearly jump out of your skin when you spot baz hunched over his desk, fanned out papers and pencils strewn across the mahogany surface. for a moment you think he’s been poisoned or stabbed or _something_ , but his chest is rising and falling, rising and falling. he’s breathing perfectly fine, and he looks kinder. unaware.  
  
you take a few seconds to blink from your spot in the doorway. baz, for all the time you’ve known him, has never fallen asleep before ten o’clock, has never been caught taking a nap, and probably hasn’t hunched over once in his entire life. you think maybe it’s some sort of trap, but when you move he stays just as still, and you pad your way carefully to his side carefully because, it’s baz, so you don’t disregard the idea completely. with one hand reaching for your sword, the other for your wand, you slide across room. he stays tucked into himself, though, and you find yourself watching him. the angle of his jaw, his porcelain skin—milk, that’s what it is—and the curve of his lips. the edge of his nose. with those grey eyes hidden away, he looks younger than he really is.  
  
you peel off your shirt sometime later, clamber your way into your bed. no long worried about being quiet. it’s best if baz were to move to his own bed, he’ll most surely have a sore back in the morning—and he doesn’t look like he’ll wake up soon—and his neck will be stiff. but that’s all you do; make sure your feet thump against the ground. you start your homework and let him be, because you hurt too, and you’re not quite sure baz would be willing to do it for you.  
  
… ****  
** **

some nights later, baz comes back up from wherever it is he sneaks off to smelling faintly of whiskey and cigarettes. ****  
** **

he bends down slightly to undo his oxfords, grunting quietly as he does so. you can only stay pressed against the wall that you’d been staring at in an attempt to stay awake and hope he doesn’t notice your irregular breathing. and, when you catch a glimpse of his face in the moonlight, you’re certain he’s been up to something terrible so it becomes just that much harder to keep still. ****  
** **

baz buries himself in the covers with a shaky breath and you continue staring at the wall. there are spaces deep enough in his body, in his brain, that make up little caves. bats. you don’t know how he does it or why it is, if he collects them all when he disappears every night. if he’s going to combust into dust and the little creatures are the only thing keeping him rooted to humanity. because well, you don’t pay attention in class (you can never sit still anyways) and you don’t know much about literature, but you remember hans christian andersen and maybe something he said about the mermaids and the fact that they had no tears, and you know that on a universal level, to cry is to be human. to have emotion. and, the part that has you confused is that they’re the prettiest creatures you’ve ever seen and they’re considered  dangerous monsters too; you know they do cry, but only salt.

if that’s how monsters show their grief then you’re sure baz cries blood.  ****  
** **

...

  
it keeps getting worse. although you’re sure it’s been there forever, because baz has never really been _cheerful_ either. but still, it’s not until a tuesday night several months later, when you hear him stumble in the shower that you feel inclined to say something.  
  
(you can’t image that he gets taken out by some soap and lousy balance. that really can’t be how the world does him in. it’s offensive, and not to mention ridiculous.)  
  
you inhale and exhale once and knock on the door. “baz?”  
  
no answer.  
  
you try again only to be met with deafening silence from his end. the sound of the water hitting the tub feeding into all your paranoia. you stand outside the bathroom and begin to seriously consider barreling open the door when you decide to think practically. you’re not sure how much of him you can take, but nudity has got to cross into the line of ‘too much.’  
  
you knock again, harder.  
  
“ _crowley_ ,” you hear baz shout, and your chest dips with a sigh, “what is it, snow?”  
  
it’s muffled, and you think he’s maybe submerged himself under, but it’s really not your job to go in there for that. you’ll run a high risk of losing a scuffle, maybe a limb.  
  
you force the words out, “i thought i heard you fall.”  
  
baz groans which is just as well, but he doesn’t say anything else, so you settle back into your desk and attempt to finish some last minute assignments. your mind wanders, constantly. you don’t really succeed at getting across any of the necessary points, and it’s only half an hour later, when baz steps out in pajamas and socks that you let yourself relax.  
  
you try and tell yourself that you’re just concerned over your own wellbeing. he could’ve been scheming up new ways to set you on fire, or how to purposely lure you into a trap. but it just makes you feel like even more of dumbass, because baz would never sacrifice his own dignity over his plan to kill you. and he’s also never cried. ever. at least, not in your presence.  
  
he’s never so much as _slipped_ before either, so you really, really, don’t know what to make of that.  
  
...  
  
you catch them staring at each other, _all the time_.  
  
you almost want to say something to agatha, because she’s your girlfriend, and she’s supposed to be honest with you. but you don’t want to pin it on her, not really. agatha’s what your future’s supposed to look like, and she’s everything you’ve ever wanted since like, first year. you’d be ultimately screwing yourself because she’d tell you the truth, and, you’re not sure you’re ready to hear it.  
  
so you lay it on baz.  
  
he always makes sure you’re aware of it too, and that’s the part that infuriates you the most. but you always make sure to hold his stare, and sometimes your hands reach up to grasp the talisman that hangs from your neck. you don’t know much about casting magic without a voice (baz should know about that one), but with everything you are, you will it to _hurt_ him.  
  
if it does, he doesn’t ever let it show.  
  
they’re still staring at each other, and you distinctively wonder why baz doesn’t bother with looking as smitten with her as he probably feels.  
  
...  
  
sometimes you imagine what it would really feel like to kill him.  
  
you’ve dreamt about it for as long as you could remember. baz, bleeding from his pores and foaming at the mouth like some rabid mutt, howling in pain as you pierce a lung. you watch, buzizing, as he falls to the ground, gasping for air. begging. it’s then that you raise your sword  and begin to press down. slowly, to make sure he’s really gone.  
  
people cheer around you sometimes, but you’re almost always in some sort of empty corridor at watford. at the bottom of the stairs, by the library. and then his grey eyes are closing and you’ve _won_.  
  
though they’re not really dreams, are they? when you wake you’re shaking, and baz is pretending to be asleep. you wonder if you’ve woken him up in the night or if he’s just gotten back from his vampiric duties—or whatever it is he does out there—because the room smells faintly of smoke.  
  
it’s you, you realize. baz is probably just waiting for you to go off.  
  
_nightmares_ , then. because you never really feel any sort of satisfaction in them, and every single time you’re glad you get the chance to wake up.  
  
...  
  
when you catch him drinking from a flask in the catacombs, you consider setting aside the whole charade.  
  
“jesus christ, baz,” you blurt out, “what in the world has gotten into you?”  
  
baz looks up from his spot on the dirt—he has dust on his forehead and on the knees of his trousers—with a half-assed shrug. “what do you want, snow?”  
  
“are you drunk?”  
  
baz sighs, this long and ragged thing that downcasts his already sorrowful features. you hate him for it, because baz is by far, the most intelligent person in your year. maybe in all of watford with the exception of penny. and right now it feels like he’s wasting his time talking to a child (what else is new) but if you were to be a complete _moron_ , you wouldn’t have found him here in the first place.  
  
you swallow down your anger. “well, are you?”  
  
he runs a hand over his face and you can see blood under his fingernails, and you’re about to call him out on it and then drag him to the mage’s office but he very lowly says, “yeah, snow. i am.”  
  
you falter.  
  
“alcohol isn’t allowed on school grounds.”  
  
baz shrugs again. “i know.”  
  
he’s so _pretty_. especially like this. in the light of the torches hung up by the walls, where you can see through him like you’d see through glass. _translucent_. veins that contain oceans of sin, the jutting of collarbones, the slight tremble in his long fingers.  
  
a phantom, some sort of spirit.  
  
_vampire_ , you remind yourself. a non-human bloodsucking vampire. of course he’s going to look like some sort of nocturnal deity.  
  
but then baz just inhales brokenly, and it could very well be the fact that you’re running on little sleep, or maybe it’s because he hasn’t quipped at you all week, but you ask, “do you want me to leave you alone?”  
  
he blinks.  
  
you raise your eyebrows and ignore the fact that you probably look like an idiot—somehow when baz does it, he always manages to raise a single brow and quirk his bottom lil upwards in this amused manner at the same time. and it looks wicked badass, but you’re not like that, so you don’t even try—and you say, “is that a no?”  
  
baz scowls, but his tone lacks it’s usual bite, “fuck off, snow.”  
  
you could do him in, you’re sure. right now. it would serve him right, for being such an arse all the time. but baz just looks so sad, that you can’t bring yourself to do it.  
  
_“merlin_ , fuck off,” he says, and he’s definitely tearing up by now.  
  
you do.  
  
…

  
you don’t think anything of it until you see niall rush past you and into the wavering wood one morning before class. you follow, of course you do, because you already know it has something to do with baz. or dev, which also means baz.  
  
it takes a few minutes to get to them—you’d lagged behind to ward off any suspicion—but when you do, you wish you’d stayed behind because baz is _crying_. these desperate gasps of air that sound more like groans of discomfort. dev has an arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders, and he’s speaking something into his ear. gently, softly, like a good cousin, like a good friend.  ****  
** **

(out of the three of them, you’ve always found dev to be the kindest. he’s never talked to you like niall or baz do, like you’re some sort of colossal mistake.)  
  
niall pats his shoulder with one hand, grasps at baz’s shirt with the other. “look at me,” he’s saying, “it’ll be alright, mate. it’ll be alright.”  
  
you watch in utter disbelief from behind a few bushes as dev hands him a water bottle. and you feel like throwing up what you had for breakfast when niall has to help him drink from it.  
  
by some sort of miracle, you watch as baz pulls himself together with a shuddering sob, and he nods at both of them once before he forces himself to stand. brushing his pants with his hands (blood underneath the fingernails, always blood), he leans over and mutters a spell that visibly tidies his rumpled clothes.  
  
his shoulders sag with the force of it though, and dev has to keep a hand on his back to make sure he doesn’t fall back.  
  
he’s been drinking. _again_.  
  
“i’m sorry,” he manages to croak out, and both the boys share a look before niall shakes his head.  
  
“none of that, basilton,” a hand on his waist, “let’s get you to your dorm.”  
  
you wait ten minutes until after they leave to come out, and then you sit where they had been for another half hour and just let yourself process whatever the hell that was.  
  
you’re not even sure how niall had known.  
  
you’re not sure if you ever will.  
  
...  
  
baz cries himself to sleep sometimes.  
  
he thinks you don’t notice, but you do. the whole bed shakes along with his shoulders, and you can hear him sniffle late into the night. he tries to be quiet, which is the only kind thing he’s ever done (and you’re sure it’s not even for your benefit) but often fails miserably.  
  
you consider calling out to him, but the one time you’d tried your first year he’d sent you to absolute _hell_ , so you roll over and force your eyes shut, willing your head to let you fall asleep.  
  
you don’t, though, and if the trembling bed frame is anything to go by, neither does he.  
  
… ****  
** **

“do you think something’s wrong with baz?”  
  
penny sets down her worn copy of _light in august_ with a sigh. “isn’t something always?”  
  
you shake your head. “not like this.”  
  
she pushes her glasses up with a finger, cracks her knuckles like she always does when she’s thinking.  
  
“have you ever thought to ask?”  
  
you snort and nearly choke on your apple juice. “he’d kill me.”  
  
penny rolls her eyes and goes back to her book, holding up a strict hand when you decide to bring it up again. ****  
** **

...  
  
when you catch baz with agatha in the wavering wood, you regret every single little thing you’ve done for him.  
  
they’re holding hands, and her face is red. and you can’t really say anything as you back away, because she’s supposed to be in love with you. and he’s supposed to have some sort of idea in that posh head of his that even mortal enemies have fucking boundaries.  
  
it’s not an enemy thing, you realize, but a human thing. and maybe that’s what makes him so fucking heartless. baz isn’t human.  
  
you tell penny a few hours later and her dark eyes go wide as saucers with surprise, and, she doesn’t complain (not even once) as you begin to tell her what you’ve seen. you want her to say something like, _simon, you’re reading too much into it_. but instead she shakes her head and says, “maybe it’s for the best, simon.”  
  
you want to cry, and you also maybe want to punch something. anything. preferably baz in his perfect, obnoxious face. but you get kidnapped, and then you really just don’t get the chance. you spend all summer thinking about it, and the way he’d seemed genuinely interested in holding a conversation with her. and it’s like your head is clouded with mixed emotions and for the first time in your life, you don’t know what it is you’re supposed to do or feel.  
  
what scares you the most is that you would have rather seen agatha with someone else, quite literally _anyone_ else but baz.  
  
you go over lists in your head to try to distract yourself from thinking it. you try and you try and you try. sometimes during the weekends you run. but you find that you really can’t push this one aside; no matter how far you go, you have to keep your head with you.  
  
and you‘ve never been able to keep baz pitch out of it.

…

he goes missing and your common sense goes with him.  
  
you search for him everywhere, and you do mean _everywhere_. you ask dev and niall—who are of absolutely no help—and the nymphs. you ask ebb and penny and agatha and the mage.  
  
you ask yourself, over and over. at night. during class, between sleep cycles, where he could be, if he’s still alive.  
  
and when he turns up weeks later, thinner and with a limp, you almost want to rip your hair out. he’s back, he’s here, and he’s still baz. smug and arrogant and awfully _baz_ .  
  
you think it means maybe he’ll stop poking at you for real this time, but when you come out of the bathroom after a shower and find baz already in the room—he starts up again. you have to fight the urge that always coils in the pit of your belly when he looks at you. like you’re about to go off. maybe you’ll be the one to take his blood.  
  
“what’s your problem?” you ask, exasperated. he’s been back a grand total of four hours and he’s already at it.  
  
“you,” he says, humorlessly, like it’s the most painful thing he’ll ever have to admit, “always you.”  
  
… ****  
** **

the first time baz falls asleep during class, you consider going straight to dev and niall, because this time he’s _obviously_ been poisoned.  
  
dev just nudges him awake, though. and you hear baz quietly thank him under his breath before he straightens back up with a slight wince. when you catch his eye, he clenches his jaw and goes back to looking at your girlfriend, and you almost want to throw your hands in the air because you don’t see the point of _this_.  
  
you’re both going to die one day. it’s prefixed. you’re probably not as bright as agatha, and you’re nowhere near as gifted as penny or baz, but you know this. you find it hard to believe someone’s going to be left standing because how do you live with yourself, with the guilt that comes with murder? you ponder on it, how some people go on with life like they didn’t rob someone of theirs.    
  
the mage’s voice rings like a siren in your head, _it’s your duty as the chosen one, simon_.  ****  
** **

forget. erase. keep going.  
  
if your nightmares are anything to go by, you certainly won’t be able to.  
  
...  
  
baz isn’t staring at you as often as he used to. and you think you can understand, because every time you look at him, you feel your chest begin to burn with ache.  
  
fire, you remember— _it’s like lighting a match_.  
  
he’s setting your lungs ablaze.

...  
  
you promise to help him find his mother’s killer because in that damn baby photo he’s young and bright and his eyes are the color of what you imagine the dark side of the moon to look like. and natasha grimm-pitch kissed your forehead instead of her son’s, which means you owe him something. whatever the hell that is, you really can’t be sure.  
  
baz hasn’t been very fond of your attempts to help, not at all, because he’s baz and every single moment you spend with him feels like a losing battle. he nearly bashes your head in when you tell him about the visiting, and he spends the entire day somewhere else after. but you wait up for him anyway, listen as he pulls his jumper off and settles into bed. he’s breathing much too quickly, like he’s trying not to cry.  
  
you steel yourself and you say, “they killed her in front of you, and that’s wrong.”  
  
_i’ll help you_.  
  
you don’t think he’s going to accept, and you can see the outline of his face in the dark, the way he grips at the sheets like he’s two seconds away from lunging himself at you.  
  
but baz only shakes his head in the dark and says, “alright, snow.”  
  
...  
  
agatha breaks up with you and it hurts for that minute and not another more.  
  
“i want to be someone’s right now, simon,” she shouts, brown eyes glazed over with frustration.  
  
if you were baz, you’re sure she would wait forever to be with you. but you’re not, so you don’t say that. and in a way you understand, there are hundreds of people at watford who probably feel the same way. it’s ironic, because when it comes down to the impending war, they’re going to have to stand on your side of the line.  
  
she doesn’t see him for _what_ he is, though, and you don’t want them to be friendly with each other—much less see them _together_ —but you do hope one day she’ll get the chance to figure that one out.    
  
...  
  
baz has long, thin scars that run from his shoulders to his forearms. you find this out three days later, when you open the door to the room just as he’s putting on his jumper.  
  
“baz,” you say, “baz.”  
  
“it’s not what you think it is, snow,” he says, and you think he means it because his eyes never leave yours and his hands stay steady at his sides.  
  
but his chest is heaving, and they look so new.  
  
“ _baz_.”  
  
he shuts his eyes. “don’t."  
  
your body feels like lead when you sit down on your bed, and you can’t do anything but watch as he leaves in a hurry, not bothering to tie his shoes.    
  
you don’t follow him. you’re not even sure you know what to say.  
  
...  
  
natasha grimm-pitch killed herself in front of her son.  
  
you’re not sure when this part of the equation really starts to sink into your brain, but once it does, you can’t let it go.

...

when you kiss baz for the first time, you‘re only a few minutes away from going up in flames with him.  
  
and it’s not a war, it’s not a battle or some duel or any of the things the mage kept telling you about. it’s not the sort of guilt that you thought would come after you’d pierced his heart. you’re in the forest, somewhere near a parked jaguar and a vampire’s secret lair and about a hundred different complicated answers away from an even more complicated question.  
  
he’s crying, big crocodile tears that you can taste on his lips, and he’s shaking and heaving in your arms like he’s forgotten how to breathe and you’re crying too. even after you kiss his eyes dry, and even after you watch him hunt. you keep having to swallow back sobs.  
  
“baz,” you say, and you pray that for once it’s the right choice of words, “don’t give up on your mother.”  
  
(it’s probably not. headmistress grimm-pitch is dead after all, but that’s not what you’re trying to get him to understand; he’s far too in this to give up now.)  
  
“snow,” baz warns, but he sounds exhausted.  
  
“i thought you wanted to avenge her death.”  
  
and maybe you’re just being cruel at this point, but you’re still raging with adrenaline from having saved his life after he tried to barbecue himself to ashes, and you could’ve lost him too.  
  
“this isn’t the end, alright?” your voice shakes with the weight of your words, “she’s _waiting_ for you. don’t you want to get to her one day?”  
  
baz lets his head drop to your shoulder, closes his eyes all at once, “i’ve been trying to get to her, snow, i’ve really been trying.” ****  
** **

you’re starting to get what _that_ means, and it only makes you cry harder.  
  
...

you kiss him again that night because you have to keep reminding yourself that you got to him time. ****  
** **

... ****  
** **

“ _nothing’s more important than my mother_ ,” baz shouts, and you want to say; you are, because you’re alive. because you’re still here. because i can still _save_ you. ****  
** **

... ****  
** **

you’re the real monster, if the holes are anything to go by. ****  
** **

… ****  
** **

you end up killing the mage. or, penny does. you don’t really understand how it happened or what it is you said to get him to just _stop_ , but you know you did something. you try to relive this while baz and penny and the bunces try their very hardest to get you to talk, but you’re thinking in flashes. and you’ve always been terrible with words—the mage that forced you into speech therapy your first years at watford in hopes of getting you to form some sort of spell, and what’s the use now if you don’t even have your _magic_ —and ebb, kind and whimsical, had wiped your tears when you’d frustrated yourself into going off. and ebb is dead now too, so you don’t even really try. ****  
** **

... ****  
** **

you fall asleep that night tangled in baz’s arms, penny’s calloused fingers running through your hair as you dream. you still feel like you’re burning. ****  
** **

… ****  
** **

you’re okay for a while. and you don’t go see baz as he delivers his valedictorian speech but you get so nauseous thinking about _not_ going to watford (it’d be your last time) that you end up showing up just in time for the leavers ball.  ****  
** **

he looks just as beautiful as he ever did, except he’s older now. the type of of old you get once you learn a terrible secret. you can tell.  ****  
** **

“i choose you, simon snow,” he says, and for a split second the world stops spinning. ****  
** **

… ****  
** **

“did it feel like this,” you begin again, weeks later, voice hoarse. “when your mother died?” ****  
** **

baz hesitates for a second, visibly pulling at the belt of his peacoat before replying with, “i don’t know.” ****  
** **

you’re sitting in the living room of your brand new flat, and there are boxes placed haphazardly in nearly every corner of the room. most of them contain penny’s books, only some of it is your stuff. you were planning to donate everything you kept in your room at watford to a charity, but penny made some comment about how objects could pass down negative energy and you’d ended up destroying them instead.  ****  
** **

“i don’t know what it is i’m supposed to feel,” you say honestly. ****  
** **

he leans over to take both of your hands in his, “you’re allowed that, simon. you’re allowed to feel whatever it is you already do.” ****  
** **

… ****  
** **

you take up painting. ****  
** **

you’ve always been skilled with your hands. ebb used to joke you’d have made a great blacksmith in another life, weaving magical arrows with the brute strength of your hands.  ****  
** **

she’d been one to get you your first set of oils. ****  
** **

you think of her a lot, especially when you’re working. you paint fields of green. goats and sheep, and have to stop yourself when you get to her hair, her hands. the gentle flow of her favorite dress. sometimes baz sits behind you and wraps his arms around your waist when you begin to cry (which only happens if you let yourself think about it too much), and if he’s staying late he always lets you use him as a model. it’s easier, to draw him instead of her. because baz, laughing, squished between daisies and and sunflowers; those things look and sound like promises. none of them are ever funerals. ****  
** **

…. ****  
** **

there are good days. days where you go down with penny to watch a movie and the loud blasts that come from the speakers don’t make you lurch out of your seat. there are mornings where baz tastes like coffee and sweetener, and nights where he sits with you as you draw. matching your concentration with his need for useless information, an illuminated spectre under the light of the dimly lit lamp. books flipped open at his feet. still, the three of you are constantly running back and forth between rooms, trying to soothe each other into sleep. and more often than not, none of you will have the energy to leave the house if it’s not for work or classes.  ****  
** **

it starts getting really bad though, when baz begins to wake up in trances.  ****  
** **

you’re used to night terrors, but not like this. when he sits up in a daze and stares right through you, when he’s begging you not to leave and you’re right _there_. penny will usually prepare a mug of chamomile tea, holding it up for him as she recites spells to coax him back to sleep. you’ll brush his hair back from his eyes and hold him to you and hum a bit before he blinks wildy a few times into recognition. it’s the most awful thing you’ve ever seen, because you know when you snap into your own headspace you almost always end up trashing the whole apartment, and when it’s penny she just rattles off a long list of things she forgot to do that day. voice breaking. you’d take any of those things over this type of chaos, the silence that follows it. ****  
** **

and you don’t know what it is he’s thinking, when he stumbles across the room in long strides and into the adjoined bathroom. from the small spaces in the dark, you can see him scrubbing his hands hard, pumping soap for minutes at a time. jaw clenching and unclenching when he settles back into bed like it never even happened. ****  
** **

… ****  
** **

you’re making cookies a few days after the last night terror, and baz is just standing uncomfortably in the middle of the kitchen as you lick strawberry icing off the bowl. you wait for him to tell you that he got hit on or that he talked to his father or something awkward enough, but instead baz very quietly says, “i’m an awful person for what i did to you.”  
  
you still. “baz.”  
  
he holds up a hand and sighs. “no, simon. just listen to me for a minute.”  
  
the steel feels like ice against your hands, but you swallow down a protest and nod.  
  
“it was almost me. the one who took your magic. that was almost me.”  
  
you inch closer to him as slowly as you can, mindful of the stickiness of your fingers. “baz,” you say, and you nudge his nose with your own, “i could’ve seriously hurt you too.” it feels useless to say it out loud, but you need him to understand how complex it really is, the whole fucking thing. how twisted.

“we had no choice,” you say, and you feel his shoulders shake against your chin.  
  
baz wraps his arms around your back, voice wobbly when he speaks again, “i’m sorry.”  
  
you press a firm kiss to the tilt of his lips, “we’re okay,” you say and standing still in the kitchen, with baz’s heart pressed right above yours, you beg all the gods you can think of to let it be true. ****  
** **

... ****  
** **

baz begins to look more and more like he did after he came back from being held in that coffin, thin and bleak. grimly lit by the slightly present moonshine in his eyes. ****  
** **

… ****  
** **

“eat,” you say, pushing a plate of sliced oranges his way.  ****  
** **

baz stares at you for a while. with a firm hand, he pushes the plate back to you and stalks away. ****  
** **

… ****  
** **

things were bound to blow sooner or later. you’re simon and baz after all, but even then, you just didn’t expect for it to turn into _this_. innocent banter about classes turning into a full scale argument over where he was planning to go after graduation.  ****  
** **

a graduation that’s still _years_ away. ****  
** **

“you are such a pretentious _ass,_ ” you spit at him. “just go do whatever it is your family does. go, be fucking great without me.” ****  
** **

it’s stemming from personal insecurity, absolutely, but there’s still a large part of you that means it. baz is too much of a prodigy to stay tied down to you his whole life. he should be out writing books, giving speeches, becoming a professor or some sort of leader for the world of mages. you feel this way, but you hate it, because you haven’t ever been able to catch up with him when you were the most powerful boy to live. now that you’re empty, you’re don’t even know where the finish line is.  ****  
** **

“fuck you, snow,” he says as he slips on his coat, eyes brimming red. “ _don’t_ come after me.” ****  
** **

he slams the door hard on his way out. ****  
** **

... ****  
** **

you don’t talk to him for weeks, and you don’t get out of bed much if it’s not for food. you stop painting, and penny stops running down to the store to get you art supplies. she absolutely refuses to let you wallow though, and when baz leaves for a weekend away with his parents, she sits outside your room for a total of eight hours until you come out in only joggers and mismatched socks. she looks you up and down for a few seconds and leaves you standing in the middle of the nearly empty hallway, beckoning you closer with with a careless hand.  ****  
** **

penny nods at the door. “get in.” ****  
** **

“i showered last night, pen.” ****  
** **

her knuckles whiten against her wand. “ _get in_ , _simon_ .” ****  
** **

you do, but only because you don’t doubt she’d use magic on you.  ****  
** **

“things are quite shit right now. could we hold off on our weekly dates?” you grumble when you come out, and your voice feels and tastes like lead. you haven’t slept in days, and a lot of it has to do with baz but there are some ugly parts of yourself that you can’t quite erase either.  ****  
** **

she shakes her head a few times like she can’t believe you’re even suggesting it. and you want to get angry at her for not understanding but you also know that she does. better than you do yourself, probably. she’s been seeing a therapist and working with her mom and sometimes she stays late at the local library reading copious amounts of books that all circle around post-traumatic stress. so you know it’s not really all about you. ****  
** **

it never really was to begin with. ****  
** **

but you comply, because you know she’s going to pick your favorite little coffee parlor that’s only  a few blocks away from your apartment, and you don’t think you could fall back asleep today without baz. when you get there, she’s extra careful with checking her surroundings, going over each face in her head. it’s scary, and it’s painful, but old habits die hard.  ****  
** **

it only takes you about two minutes after you sit down to start rambling, and you can tell by the way her lips quirk slightly that this pleases penny, because it means that it’s not been a completely awful day. you talk about yourself for a while, because you’ve been having awful nightmares and it’s beginning to feel like you’re at watford all over again. and that leads you into a whole other conversation on baz, and before you know it, the sun is beginning to set and you’ve told her everything you possibly could. how he’s refusing to feed, how he showers for longer and longer each day. the scrubbing, the scars, the mad glint in his eye whenever he has to stay up late for an assignment.  ****  
** **

she’s attentive, eyes never leaving yours. and she doesn’t so much as flinch when you tell her you feel you’re losing the love of your life. that you’re doomed to be alone forever. that you don’t know how much more shit you can take. how he’d told you the same thing.  
  
afterwards, you stab your ice cream with a spoon. “what does that even make him, then?”  
  
penelope takes an alarmingly short amount of time to answer; “ _human_ , simon.”  
  
you can’t stop the tears this time, “and what does it make me?”  
  
she takes your hand with a quivering sigh. her ring digs into your knuckles.  
  
“it makes you human too.”  
  
... ****  
** **

your bed is empty when you wake up, which you suppose is normal. baz could be in the kitchen, or he could’ve gotten up early for a jog. they’ve been more frequent lately. sometimes he darts off multiple times a day, each time with shorter intervals between runs. but you don’t really mind—he always comes back with a kiss to  press to your cheek and a bag filled with cherry scones.  ****  
** **

you stay wrapped up in your cocoon of blankets before you pad your way to the kitchen, and baz isn’t there so you figure you were right about him leaving, but you don’t dwell on it much. that is, until you notice that the apartment smells just a little bit off. nothing major or extremely alarming, and you know it’s not like, a gas leak because you’re familiar with all smells that usually equate to fire. but still, the air feels heavy around you and the atmosphere is more than a little stuffy, so you shove some eggs into your mouth and wonder around the little island for a while, searching. it takes you longer than it should to hear the water flowing. ****  
** **

you guess it though, because you’ve had days of your own where the flat has smelt exactly like this. shit, you think, shit. your heart begins racing, because _how is that not the first place you checked and merlin, you’re a horrible boyfriend and he’s in there and everything is just so fucking wet. the air is fucking wet._ ****  
** **

you pick the door with an old debit card you’d pickpocketed from one of the caretakers at your last home, desperately trying not to lose your mind when you see that there’s water _everywhere_. by the sink, drenching the rug, seeping out from beneath the door and into the hallway.  ****  
** **

“jesus christ. oh my god. _fuck_ , baz.” ****  
** **

you reach him with your hands first, your wings fluttering against the curtains in desperation. your tail tells you just how hot the water really is. ****  
** **

“baz,” you say, and you can’t even cry, “baz, darling, what did you do?” ****  
** **

he lolls his head away from the steady grasp of your fingers, and you don’t even know what to do because baz is naked and only slightly flushed (he’s not been eating, he’s not been feeding, he’s not been trying to keep himself _breathing_ ) and his chest sounds like he’s been swallowing stones. you turn off the water first, because by now your jeans are sticking to your skin and the steam is making it harder to focus. and reach for some towels in an attempt to get him out as fast as you can. pulling the plug on the bath and lifting him as gently as you can out of the tub and into the toilet seat.  ****  
** **

“honey,” you say when you’ve got him pressed against your chest sometime after you’ve calmed down, “sweetheart, please.” ****  
** **

baz grasps at your shirt like a drowning man. chest racketing with sorrowful moans, and you feel it in the space between the vessels of your heart like the pain is your own. “i’m so sorry,” he croaks out, “i’m sorry.” ****  
** **

you hush him softly, pressing an unsteady kiss to his eyebrow. “it’s okay, my love. it’s okay.” ****  
** **

he cries for a long while, and you’re not very good at coping with these things but you’ve been getting better and baz is your whole world, so you hold him to you and try to hum a little. though he only really quiets when you start to call him, “ _little puff_ ,” and you think that it says everything you truly need to know.  ****  
** **

“listen to me,” you say, pulling his hair a little bit when you notice his eyes are still clouded with something not quite grey but dull nonetheless. “ _yes_ , yes, listen to me.” ** **  
****

he looks at you, chin wobbling. ****  
** **

“breathe, sweetheart. you’re safe, you’re with me,” and you watch as baz blinks but doesn’t say anything in return, so you keep going and going and going until you feel like he’s a bit more grounded to this reality.  ****  
** **

at this point, you don’t know who’s holding who, because your knees buckle everytime you shift, and you’re just now noticing that the the bathroom mirror is shattered, and that its pieces lay gathered in the porcelain beneath it. his knuckles are bleeding, an ugly and nauseating contrast against his ivory colored skin. you’ll bring it up later, you decide, even if knowing it happened does make you want vomit.  ****  
** **

“i love you,” you say, “i love you.” ****  
** **

you pray and hope that he knows you mean it. ****  
** **

... ****  
** **

“tell me how to help you,” you whisper later that night, his cheek cold against your mouth. “i don’t know how to help you.” ****  
** **

baz brings a hand up to your cheek, strokes his thumb under the dark circles, “i’m sorry.”

your voice breaks on a plea. “i don’t know how to help you.” ****  
** **

“tell me where i’m going after this. tell me how to prepare myself for all of it,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s praying.  ****  
** **

baz is perhaps the smartest person you’ll ever know, and you figure he’s not really talking to you because if he were he wouldn’t word it like _this_. but you’ve studied him for years and years, held a magnetizing glass over his bones and picked apart all the chambers. you know him well enough to comprehend what he means. a nineteen year old boy afraid of hellfire, you want to tell him about fields of gold. ****  
** **

you don’t. instead you say, “you hold an entire church inside of you, basilton. where the dead only know to dance.” ****  
** **

it’s fucking poetic and cliche coming out of your nearly always ineffectual mouth. but you do mean it, and baz’s whimper catches in his throat so you keep going. “but we don’t have to worry about any of that right now, baz. because you’re not dying.” ****  
** **

“simon—” ****  
** **

“we won’t worry about it, will we? because if you were dead, you’d be there already, but you’re not. i’m the chosen one, remember? you _chose_ me. which means when it comes down to history, i decide what it is that makes us great,” there, a smile, “and you know what, it is _not_ your time to go.” ****  
** **

baz remembers to bring you food every single time he leaves the house. he trips over his own shoelaces because he feeds right before fancy events and always stands up too fast from his seat. it’s like, the opposite of anemic tunnel vision. that’s what penny had said, because all that blood just rushes to his head. and, sometimes he’ll pick up his violin and play the most heartbreaking covers of sufjan stevens songs, or he’ll use the ginormous piano at his parent’s place and sing kishi bashi or some really soul-crushing versions of david bowie’s _thin white duke_ era songs. and, sometimes he’ll put on some pretentious movie that only he’ll understand, and they’ll be in french or russian but he’ll still translate it just for you. and he stays up with penny to help her study for all of her exams, and he’ll volunteer at local homes and let you feed him brownie bites and, he reads you to sleep. and, sometimes he’ll splay out in the sun even though he says it hurts and he’ll gleam like he’s being welcomed into its massive orbit and— ****  
** **

“and, tyrannus basilton grimm-pitch,” you say, “you are so _very_ alive.” ****  
** **

… ****  
** **

penny cries when you tell her, puts her head down between her knees and sobs until she coughs. you don’t touch her because you know she needs to do this; you did too, while baz slept through the worst of it for those long three days, you’d sat on a bench by his favorite park and nearly split your lungs in four trying to steady your tears.  ****  
** **

“god,” she says, wiping her eyes when she’s done, “that prick.” ****  
** **

you chuckle, it’s dry. “keep an eye on him, okay? like you do with me.” ****  
** **

penny nods seriously and moves closer to envelop you in her arms. your wings close on instinct, wrapping around her shoulderblades. it’s been a long time since you’ve held each other like this. ****  
** **

... ****  
** **

daphne sends both of you pictures of the kids, and sometimes it’ll make baz sad, for reasons you still don’t quite comprehend, because they look like their mother, sure. but octavian has baz’s dimple and the ever-present tilt of his lips, and the twins—delphine and ophelia—share his eyebrows and the slight curl of his hair. and mordelia, she’s growing into her cheeks, the nimbleness of her fingers. you can tell, as soft as they all appear to be, that they’ve inherited their father’s bone structure. ****  
** **

baz scoffs halfheartedly when you bring it up, his head flat on your chest, “i don’t want any of them to be like me.” ****  
** **

“why not?” you ask, “they’re already starting to look a lot like you.” ****  
** **

“snow, octavian is barely a year old. you can’t tell yet.” ****  
** **

you press a few fingers to his forehead, stroking up and down and sideways. softly. “i think i can,” you say, “it’s in the lines of your face.” ****  
** **

it earns you a rare giggle and a gentle jab to the gut, “enough, snow. your hands are probably coated with some sort of edible substance” ****  
** **

you grin against his hair, drawing a web of tiny butterflies across his back with your fingers, and baz is quiet for a moment before he says, “i guess i just want them to be better.” ****  
** **

“fair enough,” you say, because you understand what he means, people can _always_ be better than they were before, than those who came before them, “but you’re like, the most brilliant person ever. all trouble, all genius, all heart, all bite. so if they get some of that in them, then that’s pretty cool too.” ****  
** **

… ****  
** **

he turns over to you in bed early one morning as the sun is rising, and says, “thank you.” ****  
** **

you smile sleepily against his head. “what did i do?” ****  
** **

baz kisses you for as long he can, slow and steady, hands soft and cold against your cheeks. you welcome it like you do the rest of him. you’ll never get tired of baz existing the way he does, all the space he takes up just breathing against your lips.  ****  
** **

“everything,” he says, entirely awake. “everything.” ****  
** **

....

baz sees a therapist for a short while before he begins taking medication, although he’s so stubborn it takes him nearly a week to him to swallow the first dose. nothing really happens at first, and you sort of worry because he’s supposed to eat before he does so and he’s not _doing so_ , and he still rarely sleeps and you still catch him hiding flasks in his pockets and throwing out bags that are filled with pig blood. you keep waiting for him to mix everything in a whiskey glass and call it a day, or to show up drunk to class or set himself on fire, but you can tell that something _is_ shifting in his brain, because after about a month of this he sits down next to you on the couch and very calmly says, “i’ve been diagnosed.” ****  
** **

you nod, you’ve been expecting this.  ****  
** **

“they said uh, that i’m clinically depressed. and i have anorexia nervosa, but that’s it.” ****  
** **

“baz,” you say, because he sounds incredibly nervous, “it’s okay.” ****  
** **

baz takes in a big breath and straightens out his shoulders for a second before he completely unfolds against the throw pillows. he’s wearing formal trousers and a cashmere sweater, and none of those things must be really comfortable, so you hoist his legs over your lap and start to untie his shoes.  ****  
** **

you work silently, watch as his lips quirk down, “my father won’t understand it.” ****  
** **

“he will, eventually.” ****  
** **

“it feels like giving up,” he argues, “like i could’ve been better if i were a bit stronger.” ****  
** **

“they diagnosed me too,” you say, not unkindly. “and i thought i was the bravest man you’d ever met.” ****  
** **

baz laughs and it settles something in your stomach. “no, love, you are. it’s me i’m worried about.” ****  
** **

you both have a lot of healing to do, you know this now. and you don’t expect him to accept it just like that, because baz  has always been fantastically great at whatever it is he does first try, no setbacks. this, this is bound to be a big bag of failures, but that’s okay. it’s progress, what you’re making. that, in of itself, is a massive journey no textbook holds the instructions too. but you’re not all that worried—baz, aside from being the smartest man you’ve ever known, is also quite wise. he’ll figure it out eventually. you both will, together, you’re sure. because you’re not fighting against him, anymore, but for him. and he’s doing the same for you. ****  
** **

“i suppose i’ve got to stay alive,” he says, nestling to your side, “i’ve got you to live for.” ****  
** **

“you’ve got you to live for. think of that.” ****  
** **

“i don’t know how to do that,” he says, and it sounds hollow but also very open. _good_ , you think, _this is what it means to have hope_.  **  
**

“that’s okay,” you say, and you squeeze his hand as you lean over and kiss his cheek, “because this is where we help you start _trying_.” **  
**

**Author's Note:**

> they'll be okay, promise.
> 
> i'm also @ irisella on tumblr! add me if you'd like.


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